


He Smiled.

by DidjaMissMe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Reichenbach Feels, Seb trying to cope after Jim "dies", Suicidal Thoughts, Suicidal actions, Suicide Attempt, based off unsenttextstomoran, that gets thwarted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-10-22 00:01:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17652209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DidjaMissMe/pseuds/DidjaMissMe
Summary: I'm tired of being here. Alone.SMI can't do this anymore, Jim.SMI'll see you soon.SM------------------------------a lil drabble I wrote based off the tumblr post by unsenttextstomoran





	He Smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> Based off this post by unsenttextstomoran cause I needed a lil something to try to get me back into writing and they have such great content I needed to add to it.

He's still in the apartment. Not their apartment – he can't use the intimate, possessive pronoun, the one that sounds as if Sebastian shares this apartment with Him. Not anymore. To be honest, Sebastian can oh-so-easily convince himself that it's always just been The apartment. Jim has always had a numerous amount of safe houses and dedicated properties in a variety of countries, and Sebastian doubts (doubts about a lot of things, a lot of the time) that his presence in this certain London flat had ever made it different than, say, the one in Venice, or the alleyway-entrance in Chicago, or the snowcapped cabin in the Alps. 

 

So, yeah – it's just the apartment. 

 

That he's still in. Sitting in the dark. Against the wall. Still. His mind running in circles, chasing its own tail, avoiding the thoughts he knows will eventually come by mentally debating the uses of pronouns or nouns or the fucking grammar of his own dwindling inner monologue. 

 

It  _is_  dark. Ish. Except when he closes his eyes, the flashing yellow lights of the street below sink in beneath his eyelids, as a reminder that  _hey! That's right! The real world is still here, still rotating! So fuck you and your inability to move your lazy ass off the floor!_   

 

The lights flash and move as cars drive by. He can hear the muffled chatter of neighbors walking past in the hallway. He can feel the chill of the rain seeping through the window above him and to his right.  

 

He can't hear himself breathe.  

 

Maybe he's just not listening. 

 

As a sniper, Sebastian prided himself on his acute control of his senses. His inner clock ticked like a Rolex, his instincts were sharper than his favorite knife, and he felt like a goddamn superhero when he could look through a scope and still be completely aware of his surroundings on the rooftop. But ever since that one, fatal gunshot rang out from that one, certain hospital's roof, it's been ringing in his ears and echoing in his mind, blocking all else out. 

 

God, it's been  _months_  and Sebastian is still haunted by a fucking gunshot. It's a sound he's heard copious amount of times before, but this one was distinct and sticking. 

 

To be honest, at first he thought that shot was meant for Holmes. He was following orders, keeping an eye on the doctor through his scope, listening in via the earpiece connected to Jim, and when that shot rang out he couldn't help but give a quick smile. 

 

He fucking  _smiled_. 

 

His – Jim  - Moriarty – James, his – His.... boss had just shot himself in the head, and Sebastian had  _smiled_.  

 

Sitting on the apartment's floor, in the dark, against the wall, running in circles, mind echoing, Sebastian doesn't smile anymore. That's for damn sure. He rests his head back against the wall, closing his eyes in a futile attempt to escape reality. 

 

Fuck reality. 

 

Reality is moving on, reality never even slowed down. The world lost its most brilliant mind – blown to shit on a concrete rooftop, now thoroughly washed away by this fucking London rain – and it – the world – nothing even  _stopped_.  

 

There was no respectful moment of silence, there was no funeral, there's not even a fucking grave to pay respects to. The body –  _Jim –_ wasn't given, wasn't allowed, it just -  

 

 

Sebastian, after hearing the gunshot (after  _fucking smiling_ ) heard Sherlock's reaction, was confused as to how that bloody idiot survived the bullet, and broke the rules. He switched his crosshairs from the doctor up to the rooftop just in time to watch the detective take a final step off the edge - but he didn't follow through to the landing. His scope was stuck on the scene laid out still on the rooftop behind him. 

 

Sebastian's mind replayed the sound of the gunshot, and he could only stare at the body on the ground, the blood still seeping out, until the fucking Yard had come in to collect evidence and bag up the b- Ji – the  _evidence_  hours later. 

 

That was months ago. Weeks ago. Mere minutes ago? 

 

He doesn't know how it happened (or even what happened), but he found himself in the Ukraine, lying low. The gunshot had stopped it's repetitive beating in his brain just long enough for Sebastian to get a grip on the situation, confirm that no one was on his tail, and head back home  to the apartment. The dusty, cold, dark apartment where Sebastian now lies, on the ground, against the wall, in the dark. 

 

How long ago did he get here? 

 

That's probably the worst part. 

 

 _He would be so damn disappointed in you, Moran. Get it together, you asswipe._   

 

Sebastian has no way to tell how long it's been since he sat down, how long it's been since he last closed his eyes, how long it's been that he made it back. Maybe, if someone had told him how this "Final Problem" was going to play out, he could have imagined himself picking himself up off the ground after being drunk and morose for a week or so, then continuing his personal Napoleon's work. Coming out from the shadows to continue to run Moriarty's web as if the spider never left.  

 

That's probably what Jim was expecting his right hand man to do. 

Not sit on the floor  _moping_. 

 

Well, Sebastian's always lived to disappoint.  

 

Lived. Wow. Already thinking in the past tense. 

 

Honestly, he had no question it was going to come to this. He always knew he was going out with a bang sooner or later – whether by his own hand or another's – and well, it just looks like it will be sooner rather than later.  

 

If only he could  _get off this damn floor_.  

 

He doesn't even have the energy to revel in his life's mistakes and spiral even deeper into the darkness. He's well past that point. Has been, for a while now (who knows how long). The blasted streetlights aren't letting the apartment even get truly dark anyways.  

 

He's just  _so tired_.  

 

Has been tired. Losing energy at an exponential rate now. Like when your phone is already at a low battery percentage, and you don't do anything to stop it, so the last 20% drops faster than the first 20%. 

 

His phone battery is actually at 4%. Amazing, that with such a small battery percentage left, it can still light up like the fucking sun and burn his corneas  _why the fuck_  -  

 

His eyes adjust to the light. God, it's such a white light. He sees that it's past 3 in the morning. It has been 7 weeks. Barely 1, since he got back. Wow – He turns his phone on for a mere few seconds and it already has answered all his questions. 

 

Speaking of which – the light from the phone glints off his trusty Sig to his left. It takes an incredible amount of energy to reach out and grab it, and Sebastian honestly feels like taking a goddamn nap after he gets it in his hand. 

 

 _So. Tired._  

 

The Sig is a comfortable weight, a reassuring weight, but seems like it will be impossible to lift all the way up to his head. He dreads the idea of his muscles having to work that hard just to end it all. Maybe he can keep it where it is in his lap, and just shoot himself in the stomach instead? Sure, it'll be a slower, more painful death, but nothing more than he deserves ultimately. 

 

(He fucking  _smiled._ ) 

 

While contemplating the best target on himself, he habitually checks his phone again. The light still burns, and he has no notifications. Doesn't know why he checked it, actually, other than just a nasty habit. It isn't as if he's expecting any notifications. 

 

Maybe that's why he opens the messaging app to the thread with – the texts he sent to – the conversation with -. 

 

A lump lodges itself uncomfortably in his throat. He's too dehydrated to do anything about it, feeling like all the energy has been sucked out of his skin, out of the air, out of the apartment. So tired.  

 

Yet he finds himself typing away with just one thumb, as if doesn't cost any of his last 4% of life.  

 

 _I'm tired of being here. Alone._  

 _SM_  

 

Sent. His thumb seems to have its own source of energy, as it keeps typing away without Sebastian's tired approval. 

 

 _I can't do it anymore, Jim._  

 _SM_  

 

Water splatters like blood on the bright (too-bright) screen, and Sebastian realizes he's been crying.  _Guess I wasn't too dehydrated or tired after all._  

 

After sending those two texts, it feels official. The idea of it all being over soon must be exciting, or something. Maybe it was the idea that he still has 4% of battery remaining, or the tear, or something, but Sebastian feels like a runner at the end of a long marathon who has the finishing line in view – like, a new spurt of energy to give it their all and run harder and faster to the finish line.  

 

Maybe it is the newfound energy, or maybe the chill from the rain has just officially numbed Sebastian, but he's able to lift the Sig and cock it like it's nothing, and even send one more text without feeling his muscles quake with exhaustion. 

 

 _I'll see you soon._  

 _SM_  

 

Sent. He puts the phone back down on the floor. He raises the trusty Sig and feels that comfortable weight, reassuring weight in his mouth. 

 

He smiles. 

 

A ding sounds. 

 

He looks down at that too-bright light. 

 

 _Don't you dare._  

_JM_

 

**Author's Note:**

> Pssst send me more prompts  
> my tumblr: anotherday-anotherdoug.tumblr.com or sniper-nosniping.tumblr.com
> 
> Also check out how great unsenttextstomoran.tumblr.com cause h o l y c o w


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